


The Garden

by Mangal2012



Category: Thief (Video Game 2014), Thief (Video Games)
Genre: Drugged Sex, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tentacle Sex, but not meant to be sexy, it might have happened anyway?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 06:55:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11892411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mangal2012/pseuds/Mangal2012
Summary: "Of all the ways he’d thought he would go, this hadn't been in his Top Five. It hadn’t even made the list at all."Surrounded by Freaks and only a few scant meters away from the door that held the answers he'd been seeking, Garrett is irreparably caught.





	The Garden

**Author's Note:**

> This work has triggering stuff in it and if you see one that hasn't been added as a tag just let me know!!
> 
> I'll add it as soon as I can!  
> -  
> http://glowsydoodles.deviantart.com/art/Garrett-566640120  
> (Help! How to add art in fic?)  
> This art set flame to the idea for this fic and so I wrote out almost 11 pages worth in 17 straight hours.  
> Swiss Cake Rolls are my coffee.

  
  


###### ~MOIRA ASYLUM: BASEMENT~

  
  


Of all the ways he’d thought he would go, this hadn't been in his Top Five. It hadn’t even made the list at all.

  
  


After all, death by pretty white flower wasn't what one would expect in the prison below an **insane asylum** rumored to be haunted, and home to mutant killer Freaks.

  
  


He would say the plants had a weird intelligence to them, if it weren't for the fact that they were just that. _Plants._ Sure, they glowed like miniature stars and grew from bare stone with no sun to reach them, but still … they were just **_flowers._** They’d grabbed his hands first, as he crept past a softly glowing corner, wary of lurking Freaks. And considering his feet were on the ground and therefore closer, and easier, to reach, his strange thoughts were probably justified.

  
  


Thankfully he had experience in keeping quiet no matter the situation. The startled yelp he'd had to stifle, when, out of nowhere, his hands were sharply yanked to the side and bound to the wall, would have alerted the nearby Freaks and he would have been dead within seconds. One flick of those claws and both he _and_ the grabby bush would have been torn to pieces. Freedom doesn't mean much when you're too dead to appreciate it.

  
  


Struggling did nothing to free his hands, and he had long since stopped fighting the strange fauna that now wound over and around his chest. A loop around his ankles yanked his feet from under him, dropping him to his knees. His legs were quickly bound together, putting an end to his struggles. He huffed. How embarrassing. He’d outwitted the Watch for over twenty years, and a bunch of flowers had him trapped in seconds. Some "Master Thief" he was.

  
  


A tickle against his collarbone warned him of their progress; vines were crawling up his neck. Instinctual panic gripped him as easily a dozen green shoots slipped over his chin and toward his mouth. He wrenched his head aside with teeth clenched and lips pressed tight together, straining away as they reached for him.

  
  


The plant slowly but surely coiled around his throat keeping an even steady pressure meant, not to suffocate, but to quell his frantic thrashing. Gravity pulled his hood off as his chin was pushed gently upwards, his head tilting back.

  
  


Eyes wild, his nostrils flared as he panted desperately, the increasing strain on his neck and the harsh angle forcing him to struggle for air. An eerie light drifted into the edges of his vision. Was he going to faint? He hoped not. He couldn’t afford to lose control now. As the light brightened and petals crept into view, he realized that the wildflowers had crept their way up through his hair and were approaching his eyes. Somehow that, more than anything, scared him beyond logical thought.

  
  


Visions of them gouging out his eyes and digging into his brain had his animal mind taking over. His howl of denial was swiftly smothered as the waiting shoots gagged him, twisting and knotting until they forced his jaw open and filled his mouth. They burrowed deeper, choking him, coiling together and slithering down his heaving esophagus. He thrashed, fighting for air, exhausting himself against the vines as they tightened around him. Once in his stomach the shoots released a steady trickle of water, poppy-milk, and a viscous caramel-colored substance. It would keep him calm and pliable, and alive.

  
  


Breaking off from the main stem, two thin shoots slipped into his nose, cutting through the rising panic as he felt them force their way past the thickening mass in his throat and down his airway. Poppy flowers bloomed around him as the shoots split and split again, worming their way deeper into his lungs. Once they'd spread everywhere they could easily fit, they ceased their growth and eased into their new role of plying him with poppy-laced air to add to his somnolence.

  
  


Flower stems wrapped over his terrified eyes and around his head to blindfold him. Trailing down his spine, the vines added extra rigid stability in case the fragile body they cradled thrashed again and hurt itself beyond what was needed. Soft waxy pith was rubbed into his ears, plugging them and plummeting him into deafening silence.

  
  


The vines trapping his hands shifted to pull them behind his back. They placed his palms flat against his forearms, twining around and enveloping his arms until Garrett hung powerless in their hold. Tears left black trails along his temples as he stared unseeing into the dark, his mind buried by all-consuming terror. His throat worked constantly, a futile attempt to push the invaders out, his body twitching weakly in its bindings. New leaves unfurled, tenderly brushing his eyes closed and settling against them to keep them shut.

  
  


Feeling its beloved at last fall still, the garden calmly drew him back against the nearest pillar. Heavy boughs from the main body detached from the stone, extending down to help draw its treasured captive up towards the ceiling where most of the poppies flourished, and away from the deadly abominations roaming the lower halls.

  
  


Carefully, it wrapped him in his cloak, removing his bow and quiver, his blackjack, and Erin's Claw. Garrett's weapons were wrapped in rags and animal skins and reverently left in a small alcove, shielded by the wandering roots of the tree above; the Claw was quietly discarded in a box nearby.

  
  


The vines wrapped around his hips began to curl around his belt. Once in position, a sharp outward yank snapped the belt open. Letting the ruined leather drop to the floor, the vines crawled down his hips, dragging at his pants until they hung loose around his thighs. Gliding down his legs they wove a cocoon around him, adding another layer of vines to insulate him from the chilly air.

  
  


Another shoot, much thinner than the ones lodged in his airway, headed toward his groin. Arriving at its destination it gingerly worked its tip into his slit before twisting downwards. The first touch to his prostate had his body jolting in surprise, his previously flaccid member fighting to rise as pleasure was abruptly brought into the equation. The surrounding leafy greens tightened to halt his jerking hips, the flowers in his airway releasing another dose of poppy to soothe him. The narrow shoot quickly looped itself around his leaking member, wrapping twice around the base of his testicles as well to bind him in a living chastity device and put a stop to any chance of actual release. No fluids were to be wasted.

  
  


As soon as his shudders eased the shoot resumed its inward motion, daintily passing through the gland and delving gingerly into his bladder, any possible pain from the breach negated by the poppy in his lungs and poppy-milk in his stomach. Goal achieved it briskly set to work, growing a small number of roots inside and draining the area of any liquid. Once done it, too, settled into place, ready for the next time it was needed.

  
  


The opium flowing through his system soon plunged Garrett into a deep haze, barely half-conscious, entirely unaware of what was being done to his body. Darkness was all he saw, and pleasure was all he felt.

  
  


A singularly thick vine with a slender head aimed for his rear. Nearing its goal it began to secrete a shiny milky-white fluid along a good two feet of its length. The cocoon shifted, folding his legs to his chest and exposing his hole. The thick stem gently nudged the tapered end inside, gradually working its slick length deeper with shallow thrusts. A numbing lubricant was rubbed all along his walls as it steadily squirmed deeper, further loosening the tight constriction.

  
  


Reaching the halfway point it stopped to expel a greater amount of lubricant, the solid girth of the vine acting as a plug allowing nothing to escape and forcing the liquid deeper into his bowels. Once the stream subsided the dark green vegetation began to twist and writhe inside him, agitating the trapped milk.

  
  


The uncomfortable fullness in his gut was distant, a dull pressure not worth lingering on. Pleasant flashes of red heat burst in his groin, drawing from him a moan to vibrate around the mass in his throat. The constant twirling inside him had drool dripping from the corners of his mouth, trickling and soaking the cloth mask bunched behind his neck.

  
  


His passage spasmed around the activity, but the tight grip the garden had on him allowed nothing beyond that small twitching. His eyelashes fluttered, the building tension in his gut bowing his spine despite the stranglehold around his torso and head. His mind quickly grew hazy, the amount of oxygen he was given not nearly enough to sustain him. The heat intensified, the sounds of his quickly brewing orgasm swelling in volume and pitch, alerting the nearby abominations to his presence. Bound safely aloft far above their heads, they would never find nor reach him.

  
  


The garden registered his increased need for air and the heat flashing through his body. Spikes of cold air were forced into his lungs until his eyes rolled up, the sudden influx of oxygen pushing him over the edge. The writhing of the thick limb within him ground against his prostate, milking him through the dry orgasm and prolonging his mind-numbing climax. His gurgling keen went inaudible as he finally collapsed unconscious. Internal muscles impotently clamped around the squirming invader, his hole quivering feebly against the continued onslaught of _too_ _**much.**_

  
  


Curled into a ball and surrounded by poppies, a sleeping Garrett is held lovingly by the garden, his cradle of tree roots slowly swaying amongst the web of glowing blossoms.

  
  


In time, the garden flourishes beyond the confines of the past year. The other carrier of the Primal had come through and left her mark, breathing more than just life into the feeble clumps of plants that had claimed the empty corners of the prison below. But the gentle pulses of power from the eye of the cherished one lend a purer energy to the garden, aiding in its rapid growth and helping to supply its beautiful prize with all he needs.

  
  


The milk it feeds Garrett keeps him in an on-going state of fogginess, never truly aware of anything. He never stirs, save for when the large vine in his hole drags itself out to allow the dirty liquid therein to drain. Not long after the last trickle it’s thrusting back into him, driving in deep to fill him again. After the accompanying dry orgasm and subsequent milking he’s once again slumping, boneless, eyes roving tiredly behind closed lids, tongue and throat working sluggishly to swallow around the gagging vines. He succumbs to sleep soon after.

  
  


_His dreams, what few he has, are filled with a familiar electric blue haze that never leaves him. White clouds swallow him whole and leave him reeling. Occasionally a red pulsing light consumes everything until he’s writhing in the clouds, liquid fire racing through his blood. His shouts and moans echo loudly, doubling back on him so he knows just how lewd he sounds. His frantic whines have him flushing hot under his leather._

  
  


_A sudden torsion inside drops him to his knees, chest firmly on the ground, hips propped up, wrists held in an invisible grip that pins his arms taut between his spread legs. He mewls pathetically, desperately trying not to drool._

  
  


_His hips twitch and jerk as the unknown limb inside him curves and spins, torturing him with the constant slide and press against his prostate. His mask soaks with saliva, his mouth hanging open, tongue lolling as he is swamped by the feelings invoked by the unseen tentacle. Never has he felt like this before, so wanton and debauched. Sluttish in his noises. Shameless in his posture. Drowning in pleasure and begging for more._

  
  


_He is overpowered with pleasure and things he can’t even see! There is nothing there! And yet he can **feel** it,_ gods _can he feel it. That strong surge inside him striking that spot dead on, the continuous press and grind, steamrolling any protests he might attempt if only he could speak. All he can do is lay there helpless and take it._

  
  


_On and on it pushes into him, sliding deeper, his entrance stretching wider, the weight and girth further mashing his prostate, compelling his legs to spread for more. His thready moans break off into weak gurgles, hips swaying with the strength of the heaving and whirling, drool puddling around his cheek. His eyes slip closed as he sags, dazed, hips shifting out as his chest and shoulders slump down into a decidedly hedonistic pose._

  
  


_He can't tell how much time passes, but the tightening in his balls and coiling heat in his belly announces the long anticipated apogee. Struggling to bring his hands under him so that he can straighten out of his submissive slump, he yells hoarsely as the immaterial tendril abruptly rams deep. The unexpected expansion within him painfully crushes his prostate. His body arches as he comes, long and hard._

  
  


_His eyes fly open as it keeps going, and gets faster. He shrieks as the tentacle corkscrews inside him, scraping his walls. Collapsing onto his side he folds in and presses his hands against his stomach, desperately trying to stop whatever was doing this._

  
  


_He rolls onto his back, defenseless against the fierce onslaught within him. Lashes fluttering, mouth gaping soundlessly, his spine curves up as a particularly rough scrape leaves him choking on his cries. His legs curl and flex, fingers clawing at the ground trying to grab something to hold onto as his world shatters._

  
  


The poppy holds him in thrall, the opium it feeds him leaving him sluggish in both mind and body. His body quakes and rocks under the force of the vines as they clean him, taking over that which he can no longer do for himself.

  
  


Whimpering gasps change into startled yips as he rouses. His guttural howl echoes through the prison, sending the Freaks into a frenzy. A second vine resolutely squirms its way into his hole, sliding in beside the first then coiling around it, leaking more white lubrication along its trek. This vine is only slightly smaller than the other, only covered with rounded bumps near half an inch wide along the base, and slowly decreasing in height and width towards the tip. Strong little hairs cover its whole length. Wrapped around its larger smoother companion it makes for an effective scouring rod.

  
  


The first twist and shove has Garrett screaming, eyes rolling back in his head and toes curling in his boots, his body valiantly striving to both drive his hips further back onto the rod and pull away from the fierce attack. Still unable to move, he is held firmly in place to be pummeled and scrubbed by the living brush. Pre-come drips from his filled slit at an astonishing rate, coating the plants that have taken root below.

  
  


The unrelenting pace has him sinking, moaning as sweat drips down his sides to tickle his chest. More sensation to his already over-sensitive skin. A final throbbing rotation has Garrett shivering through yet another dry spell. Tears fall steadily past sore lids, the coolness of the leaves mildly soothing their sting. His breathless whimpers subside and a groan rumbles through his chest as the vines fill him once again.

  
  


Shifting him to his side the garden falls silent. Calmly monitoring the state of its beloved one, always ready for the next time it is needed.

  
  


The poppies and the odd syrupy fluid it feeds him aid his healing, the first thing it does after making its dearest one comfortable. His cuts close up faster, bruises speed through their limited rainbow before fading into his natural not-enough-sun complexion. His hair grows thicker, fuller, darker and, more noticeably, longer, the ends now brushing his shoulders. Cold-damaged nerves from long icy winters are treated with diligence.

  
  


Scars from fights long past are smoothed over, all the close encounters with the Watch and rebelling Graven, the cleverly hidden traps set loose on his hide eventually vanish. Burns, deep slices, holes from arrows and bolts, webbed marks from poisonous fumes and liquids, his life painted on and under his skin in a forever ink of silver, pink, and black, washed away by the garden’s caring attention to his tattered but so very strong and capable body.

  
  


Months pass, the garden nourishing and healing Garrett as the outside world falls apart. Until, finally, all is quiet.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the wonderfully illustrious Haethel!
> 
> It looked like a first year Gryffindor's Potion essay after Snape got a hold of it, I swear, it was _that_ bad before the editing. I felt every bit the uneducated dunderhead.
> 
> It was **really** embarrassing that someone I admired was slogging through all that. #^^#


End file.
